“That’s exactly it.” I’m still sounding too defensive. “I need a quick break. I’ll help out more later.” I look down at the recipe. “N-now you add sour starch.”

Victor turns around from the counter where he’s packaging one last bowl of fruit, and hands me the bag of sour starch. Still panicky, I hand it to Cintia like it’s a hot potato.

PC and Cintia exchange a look before he grabs a bowl and dumps sour starch into it. He then pours the boiling water and oil over the sour starch.

Cintia stirs the mixture in the bowl until it thickens and turns to clumpy dough. When she begins to strain, she starts adding milk. PC reaches over her shoulder and adds a pinch of salt. They make such a great team.

“Have any of you made pão de queijo before?” I ask.

“Just the ready mix type,” Victor admits, scooting closer to join us.

“Don’t tell Chef that,” PC says, looking at Victor with feigned horror. He then nods at me. “And, yes, I have. My grandmother loved these, but she baked them with Minas cheese, instead of Parmesan.”

Baked. Past tense. I guess just like me, PC’s cooking influence comes from his grandmother. He smiles at me, bittersweet saudade tinging his features a little. And I know exactly how he feels.

“I’ve worked on similar recipes,” Cintia says, “but I prefer cheddar pão de queijo.”

PC looks horrified once again.

“Cheddar?!” he shouts. “I do not recognize pão de queijo if it’s not Minas or Parmesan cheese.”

Pedro comes out of the pantry, and my heart skips a beat. He doesn’t make eye contact with me, but his hair looks grayer than normal from all the flour. He just mumbles on his way out of the kitchen that the produce guy is outside and he’s going to meet with him.

Maybe he didn’t perceive that moment in the pantry as strange as I did. It’s like nothing happened. Well, because nothing happened. Good.

I try to relax a little.

“I think it’s cool enough now,” Victor suggests, and Cintia touches the batter. Dough sticks to her fingertips, and she starts kneading it in the bowl.

She must have a lot of experience, because after a while, she knows without checking the recipe that it’s time to crack an egg over it. After more kneading, she adds grated Parmesan cheese.

Then Cintia stretches her hands out, and as if talking telepathically, PC knows to pour a film of oil on her hands. It’s mesmerizing, watching her rub her hands together, and then she picks up the dough from the bowl and plops it down on the counter.

Victor leans in to whisper to me, “The dough isn’t ready. It’s too sticky at this stage. That’s why she’s going to use oil to manipulate it.”